Uncharted Territory
by egrant94
Summary: When university student Clara, first meets politician Malcolm, sparks don't exactly fly. Will it all work out, or is the relationship destined to crash and burn? First story in the 'Mapped Out' series
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi guys! So this is my new Malcolm and Clara story. Each chapter (There's going to be 50 of them) is going to have a different theme. I have a bunch of prompts saved on my computer and am going to write from those. This one, as you can see is called 'Hustle'.**

**Anyway, thanks in advance for reading, and please leave a review at the end to let me know what you think!**

**Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) don't own The Thick of it, or Doctor Who. If I did, than we would have a whole spin-off series with these two... if only.**

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><p><em><span><strong>Chapter 1: Hustle<strong>_

Wet umbrella's coloured the sidewalks and streets as the cold rain spattered down, dampening the cobblestone and making the stairs of her hotel slippery. Clara pulled the hood of her bright red rain jacket up over her head and clutched her satchel bag to her chest as she rushed down the busy crowded walkways and tried in vain to keep her feet dry. Puddles created small pools in which even the spryest of pedestrians couldn't avoid taking a dip every so often. Water finally seeped through the thin fabric of her heeled shoes and the insistent wind filled her hood, threatening to ruin the perfect hairdo she had somehow managed. Clara crossed her fingers around the fabric of her hood in the hope that the address she had messily written earlier on a loose Vatican Museum brochure was nearby. She was in desperate need of some shelter and something warm or alcoholic to drink—preferably the latter.

"Thank god," Clara sighed when she noticed an ornate wooden sign hanging from the brick above a large window indicating that this was in fact The Red Hearted Lion. The light escaping through the glass shone off the raindrops as if to tease passersby with the warmth that was surely kept inside.

The sound of a few dozen conversations all happening at once invaded Clara's ears the moment she opened the pub's heavy door. The heat quickly engulfed her with every step she took towards a recently vacated seat at the expansive bar. The sound of her wet boots squeaking against the hardwood floors earned her a few annoyed glances from the other patrons, but she concealed her mild embarrassment and pretended to be absorbed by the many drink choices on the menu.

"Una pinta per favore," she replied to the bartender when he asked what she wanted to order. She didn't know much Italian, but she was aware of a few select phrases.

The bartender nodded his head and quickly got her pint while Clara looked around the busy pub to see if she could spot the group of friends she was supposed to be meeting. They hadn't arrived yet, so Clara pulled the old beaten up book she had been reading for one of her English classes out of her bag and opened to the bookmark. Periodically taking sips of her beer, she didn't take notice of the figure that had just taken a seat at the next stool staring at her intently.

"Buona sera, bello," Clara peered over at the owner of the low, and what she assumed was the man's best try at a sexy, voice. "Ho perso il mio numero di telefono, potrebbe prestarmi il suo?" He looked at her expectantly as he waiting to hear her reply to his question. Clara continued to stare at him with a furrowed brow.

It wasn't until what felt to Clara like an eternity—but was probably no more than a minutes—later that they (he) was interrupted. A heavy pair of unfamiliar, but warm arms wrapped tightly around Clara's waist from behind, making her whole body stiffen. She couldn't help the startled yelp when an equally warm pair of soft lips pressed against her now blush coloured cheek.

"So Sorry I'm late, darling," a gravelly, thickly accented voice said just loud enough so that the man beside them could hear. "The meeting ran fucking late and it is impossible to get a taxi in this bloody city when the sky is pissing all over the place like an excited puppy on fucking crack."

Clara did her best to greet the strange Scottish men back, and managed to smile despite herself, but feared that she wasn't doing a very convincing job. He kissed her cheek a second time and took a seat on the newly vacated bar stool. The Italian man with what were sure to have been cheesy chat-up lines, had shuffled away in a heap of drunken, dejected embarrassment.

"That was quite the little show you just put on there," Clara sputtered out her compliment when she managed to finally catch her breath. She twisted in her chair to get a better look at the man, but took a sip from her pint as an excuse to pause and gather her thoughts.

The man in front of her wore a charcoal grey suit with a crisp blue dress shirt and loosened black tie. He brought no coat, but must not have needed to walk far, possibly from a taxi or a nearby building as shown by the only slight dampness of his clothing. The now discarded mass of papers and binders he was previously carrying was now set on the bar top while he roughly tapped away at his Blackberry before tucking it away in his pocket. He ran his hand through the messy curls of brown hair that topped his head; the hints of grey appearing hinted at a stressful job.

_'I need to stop reading so many detective novels.'_ Clara thought to herself.

"Don't give the poor bastard too hard of a time, sweetheart," he winked and signalled to the bartender that he wanted a pint as well. His steely blue-grey eyes bore into Clara as though he was waiting for her to comment again on what he said. When she didn't, he continued talking as if to simply fill the silence. "It isn't his fault that he couldn't help himself when he walked into this dingy fucking excuse for a pub and saw a beautiful woman sitting here alone. He was just following his fucking senses to the only hint of light in this place."

Clara stared.

"Malcolm Tucker." He held out his hand towards Clara to shake. On instinct she grabbed it and shook, but didn't let go right away.

"Clara Oswald," She kept holding his hand, no longer shaking. When she realised what she was doing she quickly pulled away. "Um, thank you," she cleared her throat and closed the book she was just reading setting it on the bar top next to Malcolm's pile of papers. "Thank you for saving me from that guy. I don't even know what he was saying. I didn't even know how to tell him to go away."

"Just call me your knight in shining fucking armour," he paused to take a drink of his beer. "So what brings you to this dark hole in the middle of a fucking hurricane in a country whose language you barely speak, except to order alcohol?"

"I'm visiting friends for a few days during my break from Uni, and was supposed to meet them here. I arrived a bit early apparently. What brings you around these parts? Long way from home, aren't you?"

_'Around these parts? Long way from home? I don't even know who I am anymore.'_ Clara internally groaned.

"Here for a conference at the Embassy. Most boring three fucking days of the year if you ask me, but at least it is a bit of a break from the brain dead fucking cunts we have back in London, yeah?"

"Clara, over here!" A voice called from across the pub.

Clara whipped her head around and searched for the source of the familiar voice. Over by one of the pillars was her friend Nina, jumping up and down to get Clara's attention. She waved and held up a finger, telling Nina that she'd be over in a minute. Nina nodded and pointed towards a table where Clara noticed the rest of her friends were all sitting.

"I'm guessing those are your tardy friends?" Malcolm chuckled and glanced between Clara, the jumping girl, and the table of friends all scrutinizing him with varying degrees of interest.

"That's them," Clara stood from her seat and gathered all of her things—drink included. "Thank you again for saving me, and for keeping me company for a few, Malcolm." She smiled and turned on her heel, hoping to get away before she made more of a fool of herself.

"Listen," Malcolm stood from the stool he was still occupying and started digging around in his pockets. He found what he was looking for inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "I know that this sorry excuse for an actual fucking conversation was more painful than stabbing yourself in the eye with a fucking fork, but I want to see you again. Dinner, tomorrow evening."

"I don't know if that is such a good—"

"Here, I'll flip this coin, right? Heads I win, Tails you lose. You'll never have to fucking see my sorry excuse for a mug again."

Before Clara had the chance to disagree with the bet, the coin had been flipped and landed in Malcolm's hand. He uncovered it and revealed the young face of Her Majesty. His smile was surprisingly boyish for someone who was a good few years older than Clara; the slant of his lips was unexpectedly charming.

"Fine, pass me your phone." She quickly typed in her mobile number and handed him back the phone. She didn't enter her name—just the number.

It didn't surprise her when she received a text before even reaching the table and her awaiting friends.

_'I'll pick you up at 6.'_

Across the room Malcolm looked down at the coin in his hand and flipped it over a few times, smiling.

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><p><strong>AN: Alrighty, thanks for reading! I'm going to try to make the next chapter a lot longer than this one. Possibly from both character's points of view... let me know what you think! A review would be greatly appreciated! :)**

**- Erin :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry this took so long to post. I knew how I wanted this chapter to go, but I wasn't really sure how to approach it... let's hope that doesn't happen with the next one! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or The Thick of It.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Online<strong>

_Two months later. April._

**To: Malcolm Tucker**

**From: Clara Oswald**

**Date: April 2, 2015 – 9: 27 PM**

I saw the press conference that Nicola held this afternoon. I could have sworn I saw your scowling face in the background. She went quite a bit off the script I helped you with on the phone last weekend, didn't she? I know that you're probably really mad right now. I can just picture you getting all red faced and yelling like when that guy spilled coffee all over me in Italy. You just need to take a few deep breaths, grab a stiff drink, and take a break away from everyone for a little bit.

I handed my last assignment of university this morning! It is sort of a relief to finally be just sitting here in my bedroom and not have textbooks all over the place and highlighter ink all over my hands. I keep feeling like I should be studying or something right now, but there isn't really anything I can do at this point. Just three more weeks and my final grade will be in, and I can hopefully graduate. It almost seems like these past few years have gone by too quickly. They asked me to give a speech at the ceremony. I might need your help with that…

Take care of yourself! Eat, sleep, and try not to murder anybody. I'd like you in one piece when I move to London!

_**To: Clara Oswald**_

_**From: Malcolm Tucker**_

_**Date: April 3, 2015 – 2:24 AM**_

If I had a bloody fucking nickel for every time Nicola Fucking Murray followed her script, I'd be living in the park down the street—sleeping on one of those fucking wooden benches. I swear, that woman doesn't have two bloody brain cells she could rub together if she fucking tried. I could draw her a fucking map to the goddamn point and she'd probably go on her own little detour and jump off a fucking moving train thinking it was a shortcut.

Anyway, enough of that.

When are you expecting to hear back about your final marks? I'm sure you'll do brilliantly on that, just like you do with everything else I've seen so far. Soon you'll be done with school and at the front of the classroom; teaching pudding brains all about things you haven't thought of in years. Graduation can't come soon enough I imagine. Have you heard from your father about the ceremony yet? I know you were telling me the other night that you weren't sure if he was going to be able to make it with work and everything. If he can't make it, you can be sure that I'll be there for you. I'll pull whatever strings I have available to so you have someone there on your big day.

I'm eating. I can't sleep. No promises on the not murdering idiots.

_**To: Clara Oswald**_

_**From: Linda Oswald**_

_**Date: April 10, 2015 – 11:42 AM**_

Your father and I won't be making it to your graduation in a few weeks. I'm not really feeling the best and would rather not make the flight over and worsen my condition. Your father is staying to help me out with things while I'm out of commission.

I'm sure you understand.

"Tucker!"

Clara has already learned by this point to not be surprised by the angry tone Malcolm's voice held when he answered his phone. This was the tone she had realised was normally reserved for Minister's, but one always ran the risk of encountering it when he's too distracted to look at the caller ID. Clara guess that the middle of the day probably wasn't the best time to be bothering him in the first place, but she needed to talk to someone.

"He's not coming." She said sadly. When Malcolm said nothing in reply, she decided to keep talking shakily. "The step monster sent me an email today to tell me that _she _wasn't feeling the best and that my father would be staying to help her out at home. They apparently won't be making it, despite the fact that the ceremony isn't for another few weeks! The email wasn't even that long. Only four lines to tell me that my father wouldn't be there on one of the most important days of my life."

"Just give me a minute to get somewhere a bit more fucking quiet," there was barely any sound for a couple moments while Malcolm left whatever room he was in, and went somewhere else. Clara heard a door shut and the muffled sound of something in the background before Malcolm spoke again. "Did you actually talk to your father about the email yet? Does he even know she sent it to you?"

"I haven't gotten the chance to yet," Clara shook her head and hovered her mouse over the send button for a strongly worded email addressed to reply to her stepmother's message. "It isn't like he has no idea that she emailed me today. The invitation to the ceremony was addressed only to him in the first place. Then I was speaking with him on the phone just two days ago and he sounded really excited about coming to visit."

"You need to call him and talk to him again about all of this. You need to at least hear his side of everything before you fly off the handle."

"I'm not going to fly off the handle!" Clara's voice echoed through her empty flat as she yelled. "Okay, maybe I'm freaking out a little bit. I just want my father to be at my university graduation. I don't think that's too much to ask. I'd be just as mad if he had told me himself, but he didn't. He was too scared to call and tell me."

"You're right. It is a fucking shit thing to do, and especially to not have the decency to tell you himself, but you need to talk to him, Clara."

"Ugh," Clara fell back on her bed and groaned. "Why do you always have to be right about stuff?"

They talked for a couple more minutes before saying their goodbyes and hanging up.

**To: Clara Oswald**

**From: Malcolm Tucker**

**Date: April 10, 2015 – 1:03 PM**

I'll be at your graduation. I know it isn't much of a consolation, but I'll be there.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading! Please review :)**


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